


All Manner of Sins

by ShowMeAHero



Category: Frankenstein & Related Fandoms, Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, M/M, Murder, Tragedy, Violence, the violence is not too too graphic but please be careful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2483246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry follows Victor to the Orkney Islands, and still they are not safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Manner of Sins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jamie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamie/gifts).



> This is a canon divergence where Henry goes to the Orkney Islands with Victor when Victor is making his Creature's bride.
> 
> Jamie asked me to write her period-accurate angst. I hope I delivered.
> 
> The title is from "My Manic And I" by Laura Marling, which I recommend - it's a good song, and it's great for this pairing.

Henry hardly leaves Victor’s side. Victor works tirelessly, day and night; the sun rises and blinds him, then the moon rises and shades him. Henry still stays, seated in his armchair in the corner. He often has a book of poetry, or a notebook in which to write his own; he may, on occasion, have an old sketchbook, as well, and a nub of charcoal, and he sketches for hours. Victor can only imagine the bitter, lonely silence if Henry had not chosen to accompany him.

The original idea had been for Henry to accompany Victor on a tour of England, perhaps going even so far as mainland Scotland, until Victor found a location for his work, at which point they were meant to part ways. Henry has always seen through him, however; it is as though he is staring through still lake water when he looks at Victor, able to see everything right underneath his surface. Henry seems to know of the weight on Victor’s shoulders, and he had changed his plans at once, joining Victor when the good doctor discovered that he must do his work in the Orkney Islands.

Henry fills the silence Victor creates. He speaks of nothing and everything as Victor works. His fair hair covers his face as he bends over his books and speaks endlessly on topics that Victor both cares for and could not care less for. He is infinitely grateful for Henry, who is quickly becoming his entire world. He has been striving to feel nothing as he created this female horror, to be numbed, but Henry has him feeling a great deal. Arguably, too much.

Victor is becoming aware. He can sense each step he is taking towards the painful light of self-awareness. Henry seems to sense it, as well. Though he has never outwardly responded, Victor can only imagine the reaction Henry must have had about Victor’s work once Victor was out of his earshot and peripherals. Any sane person would feel the same. Henry is careful not to look at Victor’s work, at the limbs and organs that litter his workspace. His naturally white face pales further when Victor turns and he might catch a glimpse of the open chest, of the bits on Victor’s soiled clothes, and he pretends not to react, but Victor knows. What humanity Victor loses through his work, he regains through Henry. He frightens himself, at times.

Victor is scarred. His body is marked by the details of his failures; the pinpricks and bruises in the creases of his arms pay tribute to the hours he has lost to the haze of morphine. Henry’s touch always skims these parts, and all other deformities of his skin, the purple blossoms beneath the surface. Not all of his scars are so immediately evident; so many lurk within, hiding, waiting. So much of what he has done haunts him, and he is changed irrevocably for it. Henry cares little for the words Victor says against himself, the truths that fall from his mouth into Henry’s. Henry cares only for Victor.

Henry is strong. Stronger than Victor, even, though Victor has never considered himself particularly strong, in body or in will. Henry knows of the Creation, of the horrid Creature that comes in the night and scorns Victor and his work. He knows of the deal Victor has made - that he will create this female monstrosity and trade her new life for the lives of his loved ones. Victor is conflicted, and that Henry is not afraid to speak on, constantly and firmly. Victor realizes, through Henry’s words, that he fears and hates his own child, this being made by him, and so is conflicted by his work.

He knows he is doing something horrid. He knows. He played at godliness, and no man should dabble as such; Henry never says so, but the words hang in the air, dense above their heads, taking pains to fill Victor’s lungs and choke him every other hour. Henry falls silent then, only moving to rub Victor’s back and whisper reassuring nothings to him. Henry has become everything to Victor.

Henry often dresses down, wearing nothing like the clothes he used to wear, which had been flowery and form-fitting and delightful to the beholder. Now, he dresses more like Victor himself; his shirts, though brighter in color than Victor’s, are often loose, the sleeves rolled past his elbows. He wears his suspenders almost always, though they will sometimes hang down; his trousers fit, so the suspenders, Victor suspects, are a stylistic choice. His trousers are all dark grey now, smudged with ink and charcoal, and his feet are almost always bare, or at least clad in stockings only. He appears comfortable, and Victor goes to him for comfort of all kinds.

The people on their chosen island care nothing for Victor or for Henry. So long as they are left alone, and no trouble comes their way, they ignore them entirely. Here, Victor and Henry are free from society, and from societal constraints. The demon Victor has created still hunts him, but that is his worry and his worry alone; Henry ought to remain free of that burden. Henry has become to him what Victor once imagined Elizabeth might have been. He has never felt for Elizabeth in the way which he now feels for Henry. He hesitates to call the love romantic, but he has lived a long time in a society which has failed him in identifying feelings such as this. He mistook his feelings for Elizabeth, a fact he realizes now. In a world where a man is meant to love a woman, Victor made a miscalculation, assuming his brotherly love for her to be a romantic love, or even, indeed, a sexual one. He realizes now how wrong he had been.

The love Victor has for Henry is what he knows he is meant to have for a woman. He is no longer in a place to hold himself back; here, at the end of all things, where he is creating the downfall of the human race and surely racing to his own inevitable demise, there is no time for shadows. His time of hiding has ended. However, the emotional miscalculations that Victor has made, Henry has never dealt with; he has always, according to him, known his feelings for Victor. He understood what Victor had not, and had welcomed him with open arms that first night. In doing so, Henry became Victor’s whole world, his entire universe; his spinning planets, his twinkling stars. He outshines them all, to the very last. Victor has never been good with words - that was always Henry’s hobby - but he believes Henry knows, even if Victor never says.

Victor knows he is making a mistake now. He knows this. Henry had been hesitant to approach, but he stands at his side now, his arms circling Victor’s waist, his face hidden in Victor’s back. He murmurs nothings into Victor’s back, and it grounds him in a way his work no longer does. Victor is working on his even stitching near the collarbone, doing his best with steady hands that belie none of his inner turmoil, when he sees the face.

The face of his Creature is on the other side of the window, across the table; the monster will do this, from time to time, checking on Victor and on his future bride. Night has fallen, and his face is illuminated only by moonlight and the low glow of the lantern Victor keeps by that window for light. The Creature is examining the body of his wife, and Victor knows, in a sudden cold rush, like that of ice water being injected into his veins, precisely what he must do.

“Henry, step back,” Victor commands, his voice low, the first words he has spoken in hours. Henry, interrupted mid-sentence, does not protest. He simply does as he is told, stepping away from Victor. Two small steps, but the space is enough.

“Victor,” Henry says, and Victor closes his eyes. “What are you going to do?”

“What I should have done when this all began,” Victor answers. He opens his eyes, and the Creature is staring back. Their eye contact is horrible, like that of two men on a battlefield; it is blazing red and full of destruction. Victor reaches for his amputation saw, its ebony handle curving familiarly into his palm. He flexes his fingers.

“Victor,” Henry says again, and his voice is soft. Victor holds the way he says his name in his short-term memory, commits it to his mind.

“I love you,” Victor says in reply, and he begins his heavy-handed, frantic destruction of the body lying before him. Henry immediately steps forward, filling the space he has only just vacated, and his freckled face is soon drenched with red. Victor is manic in his obliteration of the woman he has spent so much of his time and humanity on, his swings growing increasingly wilder as he goes. It is clear the body is completely demolished, beyond saving, when Henry grabs his wrist and stills his hand. Past the rushing of his blood in his ears, Victor can hear the horrible cries and bellowing, pained roars of the Creature. When his eyes focus again, it has gone from the window, and he feels a heavy dread.

“Clerval, leave this place,” Victor orders, but his voice is weak. Henry is preoccupied, prying the saw from Victor’s white-knuckled grip. “Henry. Please. _Fuck_ , you have to hide, you must-”

“Victor, you must be calm,” Henry insists softly. He frees the saw and sets it aside. Victor turns to him, and he cannot see fear. Henry is strong. His face is painted in blood, but still it is rich with intelligence, and power, and an intensity unmatched by anything in their world. His hands come up to frame Victor’s face; though they are far from being of a height, Victor feels small compared to him, and Henry seems larger than life. “Fear not. We are safe here.”

The floorboards creak in the old house they occupy; neither of them could possibly sneak up on the other, not in any situation, and so the eight-foot-tall beast that stalks Victor’s every breath has no chance of doing so, either. His loaded footsteps are like thunder as they come towards the door of Victor’s makeshift laboratory, and Victor pushes Henry behind him, trapping him between Victor’s body and the remains of the Creature’s bride.

“What have you done?” the demon snarls as soon as its horrid yellow eyes are upon him. Victor stares back at precisely what he has done; he has created an Apocalypse, and he must suffer the consequences.

“What needed doing,” Victor answers, drawing on Henry’s strength. Henry is caught, the table behind him digging into his spine, Victor’s back pressed tight against his chest. He does not move; Victor can hardly feel him breathe. His hands are firm on Victor’s waist. “You would create a race of monsters. I cannot let that happen.”

The Creature studies him. Its terrible eyes move to the mess that was once his bride, and his face is pained in a way Victor wishes he had never seen. The Creature’s attention moves to Henry’s hands on Victor’s waist, and Victor’s stomach is abruptly full of lead, his heart is swiftly beating against his ribcage, though he knows nothing more than he did moments ago, and not a word has been spoken.

“You have robbed me of the one thing a man needs most,” the Creature says harshly, his tone blunted and dull, and Victor’s breath quickens. Henry tightens his grip, his fingers digging into Victor’s skin, surely leaving bruises. Victor welcomes that pain. The Creature moves, coming closer and closer until he can look down past Victor and see Henry. Henry tips his head up and stares back at the Creature, which towers over him more than it does over Victor. Henry’s gaze is unwavering, unblinking, just as the Creature’s is. Victor has never felt such rage.

“You will not touch him,” Victor spits, grabbing for the amputation saw again, cursing its removal from his grip. The Creature pushes him aside as though he were a child, sending him careening into the lone bookshelf, half-full of the tales Henry rereads in the day. Victor’s skull collides with one of the shelves, a bookend falling and hitting his forearm, and, dazed, he sits on the floor, surrounded by fallen books. There, he remembers. He remembers Henry seated in the overstuffed chair in the corner, his fair, beautiful hair glowing golden in the sunlight. His smile has grown rarer these days, but it is there in Victor’s mind, bright as anything. He laughs at something Victor has said, and he is forever that brilliant man.

When Victor comes back to himself, the Creature is demanding something of him. Victor blinks once, then twice, and slowly regains awareness. The Creature stands a mere meter from him, towering above him, and Henry is not weeping, but there are tears falling steady from his eyes, cleaning tracks through the blood on his face. He is staring directly at Victor, and he is afraid. The Creature’s large hands are wrapped around Henry’s arms.

“What will you do?” the Creature urges, and it is this phrase that he has been repeating, over and over, demanding something of Victor that Victor does not know how to give. Henry’s eyes are wide, brightly blue, and unblinking. They do not waver from Victor.

“Anything,” Victor says. Henry shuts his eyes. “I will do anything, just… Just give him back to me.”

The Creature stares hard at Victor, assessing him in a way Victor had never imagined him to be capable of. Henry trembles under the demon’s horrible, partially-decayed hands, and he is dwarfed by them, seeming all the smaller for the almost comical difference in size between their two bodies.

“You have made the mistake already,” the Creature says, and Victor does not know the moment that he scrambles to his feet, but he is on the floor one moment and standing the next. “The deed is done. You killed the one I held most dear, and you must suffer the consequences.” The Creature turns away from him, looks down at Henry. Henry opens his eyes again, and he does not look at the Creature. He stares still at Victor. “You must lose that which you love most.”

“Please,” Victor says, and the word is ripped from him, raw and bleeding in the air between them. “Please, for the love of God-”

“There is no God,” the Creature spits. “No being who is considered to be _good_ and _just_ would create such lives as yours and mine.” The Creature turns back to Henry. “He may have been proof of God, had we not existed.”

“There is God here,” Victor lies. He has never believed in God. Now, he wishes there was a God; he wishes He could save Henry. “Look at this. Look at the life I’ve created. Look at yourself.” Victor stops, swallows. His eyes flicker between Henry and the Creature. “Look at him. There is good here. There is good in this place.”

“You created me,” the Creature says. “This is true. And yet you are the farthest from God that a man could imagine.”

Victor steps forward, and he knows by the way in which Henry bites at his lip and shuts his eyes that the Creature’s grip on him has tightened. He steps back, moving in a slow, wide circle towards the table.

“She can be repaired, and I will begin work immediately,” Victor promises. “She will be better than before. She will be more beautiful, much healthier. Worthy of her mate.”

“Victor Frankenstein, your words are made of nothing but lies and deceit,” the Creature hisses. His voice bursts, like a bullet from a gun, and is no less painful in Victor’s chest than if he had he been shot with one. “I will teach you a lesson which you will not be able to stop yourself from learning.”

Victor lurches forward, knowing now that no words of his can stop the Creature. In his hands is the only weapon he could grab so immediately from his table, and so the surgical hook bears down on the Creature’s chest, tearing it open. The spray coats them all, but there is hardly a difference after the disaster of the bride’s demise. Henry jerks away from the stunned demon, falling into Victor’s grasp, and Victor holds him close to his side, one arm wrapped tightly around him. His free hand holds onto the surgical hook with a white-knuckled grip.

“You will not take him from me,” Victor commands. Henry pulls away from Victor to grab a tool from the bench. He finds a half-rusted Liston knife, and he raises it in his delicate, freckled hands.

“Nor him from me,” Henry adds. The Creature is broad and slower than them, but he is substantially larger, and there is strength in his size. He lurches forward, his hands seizing Victor ‘round the neck. Henry needs nothing further to spur him into action; he lunges at the monster and drives the Liston knife through its throat. The pointed tip of the blade is visible coming through the stitched skin on the other side. The Creature roars in pain and releases Victor. The beast uses his great size to his last advantage, grasping Henry’s small, delicate neck in one huge palm and crushing it. The Creature and Henry both crumple to the ground.

The Creature dies in a matter of seconds; Victor pulls the Liston knife from his neck by its ebony handle and attacks the demon with a Neanderthal-like ferocity, ripping the body he once stitched together to shreds. The Creature’s life leaves him all at once, and the hand on his ankle is all that can stop Victor in that moment. He drops the Liston knife to the floorboards and falls to his knees.

“Henry,” he says, choking on the word. He gathers up the man who has been his closest friend for so long, his dearest acquaintance, his lover, his world. He pulls him close, propping his head up. It is clear that his throat is beyond repair, and his breaths are coming in short, stilted gasps that scratch at Victor’s very being. Henry tries to speak, but cannot. He tries to reach for Victor, and he can, his hand raising to seek him out. Victor clasps that searching hand in his. It is small, fine-boned and beautiful in his large, calloused surgeon’s hands.

Henry’s last breath is spent on trying to say something to Victor that is indecipherable. Victor is left alone, there over the corpse of his beloved and beside the body of his child. He desperately pushes Henry’s hair out of his face with the hand not still wrapped in his. His wide blue eyes are still wide and blue, but they stare at nothing. They are empty in death in a way which they had never been in life, and Victor has to close them. He bows his head over Henry’s, presses his bloody forehead to Henry’s stained, smooth, freckled one, and sobs, gasps surging out of him at a speed his lungs cannot match. The ground has fallen out from under him; he is plunging into darkness rapidly, losing himself in seconds. _Henry._

He acts without thinking. Never has he felt such a torment as this, and the rage and the melancholy overwhelm him. He moves without a thought, without stopping to breathe, and he grabs the Liston knife. Its handle is still warm; Victor knows it is from his own hold, but he imagines it to be from Henry’s. He raises his head from Henry’s. He looks to the Creature, ripped at the seams. He knows there is nothing left for him in this world. He holds the knife to his own throat and returns his tear-blurred gaze to Henry’s face so that it may be the last thing he sees.

He draws the knife across his own throat.

He falls there, slumping forward over the corpse of Henry Clerval, and dies.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on Twitter at [@nicoIodeon](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon) or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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